


Neighbourhood Files | Shoreditch Case Study #3

by ItsSweaterWeather



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Freeform, Oral Sex, POV Molly, POV Molly Hooper, POV Sherlock Holmes, Porn with Feelings, Post-TFP, Post-The Final Problem, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-22
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-15 00:43:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11219673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsSweaterWeather/pseuds/ItsSweaterWeather
Summary: Molly's flat is in Clapham.Sherlock resides in Marylebone. That's a lot of ground to cover. A series of stories, then, following their post-TFP relationship and what they get up to - down to - in each neighbourhood. Not all situations lead to wall sex. But this one does...(please note: there is absolutely no clueing for looks)Try as she might, it was impossible to hear her full name and not wince at the way it'd been manhandled. She was spoilt for Sherlock's plush lips wrapping around her letters. Drunk on his resonant baritone pouring each syllable, like a dram of rare whiskey, down the center line of her body, the amber vibrations pooling deep between her legs.





	Neighbourhood Files | Shoreditch Case Study #3

The cab stopped at the corner of Bethnal Green and one of those dim, ‘high end industrial’ streets for which Shoreditch was now famous: moody factories rehabbed into lush restaurants and secret clubs, covered with graffiti or posted bills to retain some of the neighborhood's grittier edge. Friday night in Shoreditch was entirely too cool for her old-fashioned dress and prim ponytail. 

Ten minutes into their ride, Molly felt Michael's thigh against hers, timid compact muscle making its premeditated move. In her experience, the soft contact was precursor to hand-on-knee, an opening salvo meant to clear the way for palm-on-small-of-back. She glanced out the window. The sun hovered above the west end, blood red and radiant. She willed the damn thing to set faster.

_"Don't forget your sweater, Molly Hooper. l'll see you tomorrow."_

He'd sent her on her _not date_ with Michael, the new radiologist, only an hour ago doused in a combustable mix of kisses and hard smacks to the arse, promising to light her up on Saturday. It was 8:25pm. Only three hours and thirty-five minutes until tomorrow...

She scolded herself for being mawkish. They'd barely come up for air since _I love you._  Four months of frenzied togetherness - and it wasn't enough. Friends complained of her absence at regular brunches. Mum didn't understand why her mobile went straight to voicemail on days off. She and Sherlock could stand to breathe on their own for one night. Couldn't they?

A handful of people didn't question the reclusive behaviour of one surgical pathologist and her consulting detective. Nine years of dancing around those three little words and Mrs. Hudson said they were allowed the space to tango.

_"Just close the windows, dear, if you think things will get noisy. Mrs. Turner next door listens for everything."_

Molly smiled. Mrs. Turner should probably invest in triple-insulated glass or a bag of popcorn...

It was silly of Molly, at damn near 38, to pine for him _now_. She'd survived close to a decade of evenings, just like this one, without the possibility of garnering Sherlock's attention the next day. A night of gossip with a new coworker at a club she'd never been to (which was about 98% of the clubs in London) was just what the doctor prescribed. But she'd limit her intake to exactly three hours.

Michael's casual friendliness was just that. No need to be hyper sensitive.

The pins-and-needles tingling over her sore arse reminded Molly just how sensitive she was.

Sherlock Holmes was an absolute fuck. _Her_ absolute fuck.

A moist hand clamped down on her bare knee, snapping her back to Shoreditch. “We’re here.” 

“Where is _here_?” She spied a long queue of beautiful people fidgeting behind velvet ropes. Short skirts. Tight trousers. New tits.

Michael smiled, his colorless lips stretching like surgical latex around his face. He held the cab door for her and tapped his foot. “C’mon.”

“Oh! Almost forgot my sweater.”

Shoreditch was definitely not the place for the likes of her sweater. 

“You’re the only woman I know under 70 who carries a sweater in June, Molly Hooper.”

Try as she might, it was impossible to hear her full name and not wince at the way it'd been manhandled. She was spoilt for Sherlock's plush lips wrapping around her letters. Drunk on his resonant baritone pouring each syllable, like a dram of rare whiskey, down the center line of her body, the amber vibrations pooling deep between her legs. He was six feet of triple-distilled spirit with an unexpected finish. _Jesus!_ She'd left him in her flat only an hour ago and already she was parched. Her mouth went dry at the thought of swallowing him down in one silky gulp.

Molly could hold her liquor. Still, she and Sherlock didn't drink more than a glass of wine or spirits often. Although alcohol wasn't Sherlock's trigger, theirs was an unspoken mindfulness. Now that the wall surrounding his childhood trauma had come crashing down, Sherlock was less inclined to seek oblivion, more intent on sustaining lucidity. Ella - and Rosie - had brought him closer to the light.

 _"Yes, Molly, but you keep my darkness at bay_."

He'd said so - without romance or impulsivity - over the morning paper and Mrs. Hudson's eggs. More simple honesty from this complicated man. Yes, she'd scolded him for unkindness and called him out for bouts of childish bravado. No, she'd never turn her back on Mycroft's (then John's) requests to field-nurse him through several detoxes; dark days and nights spent sparring with his Mr. Hyde, soothing his Dr. Jekyll. And of course she'd help with his elaborate fake suicide - whatever he needed! - never once tipping her hand, even as waves of worry for him threatened to drown her.  

All told, Molly didn't think her contributions to his mental stability or physical well-being all that extraordinary. 

It wasn't like she'd taken a bullet for him...

Mycroft, of all people, pulled her aside and lent context to the weight of Sherlock's words.

_"I believe it was Tolkien who said 'It is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love.''"_

Her kindness _was_ ordinary. They were friends. That's just what friends did.

And she loved him.

It'd always been true. 

Michael's nasal tone shattered her private reverie. “Hey, Sweater Girl. Where ya' going?”

“Well…em…all these people—”

“You think I’d invite you out to have you queue up all night with the cattle? Nah.” Michael's hand fumbled down her back, resting at the base of her spine. He steered her to the front amidst groans and complaints from the crowd. Their assessment of her situation was hard to argue with. 

She maneuvered out of his reach, a polite sidestep under the guise of fixing the strap on her shoe. “So, em…this club…place. Whatever—“

“Noho House.”

“Yeah…so, you have a membership here?”

“Well, not exactly. A pal o’ mine works the floor.” Michael motioned for her to join him in the alcove behind a velvet rope. He wrapped on a matte black steel door.

She was either going to be murdered or become a harem girl in an opium den…

“Anybody can hang out at the bar in the lobby.” His eyes traveled over her neckline. “Well, anybody without a sweater, perhaps.” He nudged her, smiling with his teeth. "Anyway, You don't need to be a member for the lobby club. Marc-Oh monitors the private club areas, keeps a list of any lost cards. So if someone loses a card, typically takes ‘em 24-36 hours to call the club and report it lost.” He rocked on his heels, impressed with himself.

“I…I don’t understand. How does that benefit us? You, I mean.”

“Marc-Oh finds cards scattered all over the club’s private floors at the end of the night, or early morning (more nudging) then calls up his boys and sees if anyone wants to make a mad dash over the next night and, voila!” His eyebrows wiggled like caterpillars across his forehead. 

“So we’re here on someone else’s card? Isn’t that…at the very least, well, rude?”

He chuckled into her ear as the door swung open, granting them access. “You're the cutest thing, Sweater Girl.”

The cavernous lobby swarmed with more well-heeled people. Michael shouted at her over the glamorous din, jabbing her side. “…so we’ll grab a couple drinks then head upstairs. To where the real action is.”

The murdering or the opium-ing, Molly imagined. She heard Sherlock chuckling in her brain. Now she had to endure this evening just to prove him wrong.

But he was always right.

Except when he wasn't. He'd learnt a few lessons over the course of their friendship. John. Greg. Mrs. Hudson. Rosie - especially Rosie - they'd all mentored him.

_Mary._

Sherlock couldn't talk himself out of that test. Failed in heartbreaking fashion. Eurus provided the path for his redemption, of a sort,  and it lead, at least in part, back to Molly. Granted, five people died before the youngest Holmes sibling made her point. Molly grappled with the fact that her heart's content had come at the hands of a murderous psychopath.

Pain and happiness co-habitating. Always. The trick of life was to find someone (or a band of someones) to share the burdens and blessings of both.

She had. But she'd agreed to a _not date_ with this tosser instead. 

Molly decided not to wait until Saturday. Time to put an end to her evening in Shoreditch. The rest of her life was waiting in Marylebone. 

 

The elevator doors closed with a soft _woosh,_  whisking Molly away from her _not date_ nightmare.

She was 'this close' to activating her escape plan, a well-placed knee to Michael's growing _ardor_ , when a blonde at the elevator had him removed from the club. Molly loved the statuesque gatekeeper for her woman's intuition. She'd noticed Molly's discomfort, identified its source and held her completely blameless for the situation. Molly collapsed on the upholstered bench thankful that she was headed for some back door off the lower level.

Sweater tossed to the side, Molly stretched out on the lush bench and breathed. The quiet, moody interior gave her a chance to sort out her buzzing ears. Did she hear Blondie say _"...and I know the owner of this card. You're not Mr. Holmes."_  It was difficult to make anything out above the thumping techno and high-decibel conversation. Surely the woman said 'Mr. Jones'. Or 'Mr. Sonns'. Or 'Mr. Bones'. OK, maybe not Mr. Bones. And, anyway, even if Blondie did say Mr. Holmes, there were a bazillion Mr. Holmes in the world. And London. Right? She, herself, knew two of them. And they had a father so that was already three.

Her _not date_ was over and that was all that mattered right now. She didn't need to go about conjuring up Sherlock Holmeses round every corner. Saturday was scant hours away. She'd go home, get a good (and lonely) night's sleep and see him soon enough.

_Do put your big girl pants on, Molly. You remember what it was like without him, don't you?_

She did.

Which was why her brain couldn't stop thinking about him.

The doors slid open on a moody, bricked walled space whose vaulted ceilings and archways seemed to go on forever. More people - loads more - laughing, drinking, in the deep leather banquettes lining the walls, at a curving mahogany bar to the right of her, and in a larger crowd to the left. That end of the cavernous space was much brighter, lit by fluorescents in a colorful prism of sleeves. The effect was modern, theatrical instead of clinical. Deep banquettes in comfortably worn velvet upholstery lined the walls. Mirros hung in strategic randomness gave one the sense that this was a crowded, endless space begging to be explored.

Too bad she didn't want to stick around. She just wanted to leave.

Another blonde gatekeeper tapped Molly on the shoulder as she exited the elevator. "Anything you want or need, just ask. Full bars all over. Everything down here is free. For members.”

“Oh. I’m not a member...“ but the woman returned to her conversation with another club goer.

There weren't any call buttons on this side of the elevator doors, making a quick trip back up to the main floor difficult at best. OK, not a problem. She spied a red 'exit' sign above another matte black steel door at the very far end of the room. Just a matter of maneuvering through this thick crowd.

Molly dove in, swimming the tide of bodies toward the door. More like treading water. Every guest was at least six inches taller than her five foot three inch frame. She stood still for a moment,  getting her bearings before claustrophobia set in and the crowd buffeted her away from her goal. A strange heat - and scent - shimmered around her, humid but not unpleasant. Molly couldn’t put her finger on it but it reminded her of a gym, only without the modern additions of bleached towels, chlorinated showers and those odor-eliminating contraptions that puffed out imitation bouquets at regular intervals. The air smelled minerally. Musky.

_Male._

Probably the result of so many bodies pressed shoulder to hip. She made a slow turn round. There were the elevators, there was the exit door. To her left, a beautiful mahogany bar. To her right, several men in sharp suits stood on a raised platform, making wild gesticulations and collecting money from the crown, a pantomime she recognized from childhood days spent with her dad. At the horses.

Bookmakers.

As out of sorts as she was, Molly knew how to read the odds board hanging behind them. Numbers scratched in chalk for onsite tournaments going on someplace: card games, shuffleboard, billiards. But most of the money wagered was against odds listed between two columns of initials.

_Boxing._

The swell of people around her jockeyed for a view of the ring which she now registered was opposite the bar. She'd never make it to the exit door in this sea of people once the bouts started. Molly moved against the crowd, back the way she came. If she could only get back to the hostess at the elevator...

She froze. Her veins turning icy even as her skin beaded from the room's growing heat.

A bookmaker wiped the most recent bout off the board, replacing it with the initials of the next boxers to take the ring: T-J-C and…W-S-S-H.

 

The first punch landed somewhere ahead of her, the muted sound of muscle absorbing force. It was followed by grunts and shuffling of feet. Molly wedged her way into the crowd but this bout was a popular match. For every two feet she advanced on the ring, the crush of bodies pushed her back a foot or off to the other side side. Away from the action.  
  
Attempts to get a visual, either by jumping over or squinting through the crowd, failed. Worry. Frustration. Anxiety. A spectrum of emotions - all of them on the darker side of the prism - colored her perspective. At one point, she’d been pushed back so far, she was within several feet of the elevators off which she's come. Molly no longer had any desire to leave. She began the  nightmare ebb and flow through the crowd once again but she never caught a strong enough wave to get her ringside.

More cheering. But for whom Molly couldn't tell. Grunts from the ring grew louder. Or were they more pained? She skirted the edge of the front, but still couldn’t see clearly. Glimpses of slick, frosty skin. Flashes of a lean torso. A head of dark, sopping wet curls popped into view, then disappeared. 

Posh soap - the faintest whiff of it - assaulted her.

No more demure slipping between bodies, She pushed and jostled, moving people out of her way, palms flat against shoulders and backs. Her body trembled, vibrating with the need to get to him.

The _thwack!_ of bone on bone is unmistakable. A sickening crunch wrapped in soft tissue accompanied by a primitive groan, a sound made unbearable because she didn't know which boxer had produced it.

Wrong. Her body knew. She'd heard that low keening sound the night she ran down to Emergency, after she'd received John's text.

_He's been shot. Critical. Please come._

“One! Two! Three!…” The counting of the referee. The pounding on the ring’s mat.

People pressed to the ropes for a better view and she surged with them. Finally! She could make out a sliver of the ring. The cueball head of the referee. The tattooed back of the other boxer. But the opaline skin, the agile limbs, the mop of curls... Molly didn't see them. Him.

“Eight! Nine! Ten! That’s the bout. Challenger now champion Thomas Carrozza!” 

Cheers and boos surrounded her. Molly's brain flipped between professional medical acumen and the _fuck all else_ need to be near him. She had to get to the fucking ring.

She struggled to be heard above the upscale bedlam. “He could be hurt! I’m a doctor! LET ME THROUGH!” And then she was lost on the swell once again, as bodies rushed to the bookmakers.

Losers fanned out to refill their drinks, winners to replenish their wallets. Molly reached the ropes too late. Organizers were already prepping for the next bout. On the other side of the ring, she spied pale skin disappearing through the heavy steel exit door. Heart knocked against ribs. There was no mistaking the line of those shoulders, the dip of the scapulas. She'd lavished every one of those muscle with her lips. _Trapezius. Levator scapulae. Rhomboid major. Rhomboid minor..._

Molly exhaled. She'd held that breath since hearing a body hit the canvas. He was upright. Walking. She could let it out.

But what was he doing in Shoreditch?

_Boxing, obviously, you idiot._

What was he doing boxing here? At this particular club? A club she didn't even know she was going to? Coincidence?

_Who was it that said 'the universe is rarely so lazy'?_

She plowed through the crowd. Once she'd made it on the other side of the heavy steel, her path was fairly straightforward - in direction anyway. There were no doors or forks to trip her up, just a long brick corridor that turned at right angles. Pools of light fell from hooded fixtures, islands of yellowish circles amid an increasing darkness. A back passageway. Utilitarian, not requiring any gilding or more than the bare minimum in terms of illumination. She ran her hand along the rough walls and followed them, determined not to stop until she found him.

As she came upon yet another turn, Molly heard a voice. A midrange alto with an accent. Spanish, maybe. Or Italian? Either way, the distance and the hard surfaces distorted his words. She couldn't make out what was being said, only that it sounded heated. At the very least, excited. Molly crept to the corner, straining to make out the conversation. If she peeked round the wall, she'd no doubt be seen. That wouldn't do her any good until she could be sure the body attached to the voice was likely to help her instead of harm her.

_Murdering and opium-ing..._

Her nerves bristled. And then she heard it. An aural beacon reverberating off the brick and through her heart. The rich chuckle he deployed when he was thoroughly amused.

Molly poked her head out, cautious of her anxiety and the corridor's fickle light; she wouldn't put it past her brain to conjure a phantom Sherlock. There, at the far end, stood two shirtless men in slim briefs. Their backs were to her and they were clearly deep in conversation. The stockier of the two men was the one she'd seen early, loaded with a tapestry of beautiful tattoos. He laughed now, speaking with his hands, then moving on quick feet, jabbing his fists in the air. 

His companion was tall and lean, his skin marked only with faint striations across the shoulders and upper back. Silver reminders of his two years in Eastern Europe. The scars dwindled as back tapered to waist. His muscles were taut under damp, alabaster skin tipped pink from hard effort. Light and dark skimmed the plains of his legs. _Adductor magnus. Vastus lateralis. Gastrocnemius._ Molly made love to those elegant muscles last night. Her lips knew the sinew and knobby ends of his body as surely as if she'd set her scalpel to him. And it appeared to be in one piece.

A slap on the shorter man's back, then more amused laughter. Warm amber liquid down the center line of her body. Pooling deep between her legs. The two men shook hands and parted, the shorter one disappearing into the darkness, 

Molly stepped out of her shadowed corner and into a pool of light but didn't go to him. He hadn't turned round. She hadn't offered up one final prayer for his well-being. 

"Some argue that lily of the valley is an antiquated scent. Too old-fashioned." He turned on bare feet to face her. Blue eyes shining pewter under the hooded fixture hanging above his head. "But I'll defend the counterpoint. It's a straightforward top note that needs little, if any, of the accompaniment muddying modern perfumes. It suits you, Molly."

 

He'd smelled her as soon as she'd rounded the second-to-last corner. Out of sight but never out of his mind these days, Sherlock's acuity for Molly's presence had increased ten-fold in the last four months. When he wasn't in Ella's chair or at Eurus's side, he was wrapped in her heat. She favored lily of the valley, a clean floral edged with citrus, and he'd gifted her a bottle of dry oil in that scent hours ago. He'd rubbed it into her damp skin, long strokes meant to push the arms of the clock backward, to keep her for just a few more hours. All night.

_"It's not a date, Sherlock. He's new to Bart's. Just needs a friendly face and company while he settles into London. Both of us can survive a night apart. You're taking cases again. Lots to keep you busy, I'm sure. Besides, you promised me all of your Saturday."_

She'd kissed the tip of his nose, grabbed her sweater and left. The moment the door shut, her bright flat and his mood dimmed.

Ridiculous. Of course he could survive a night without her. He'd _survived_ a lifetime. Only he hadn't. Not really. And he'd done Molly nearly a decade's worth of disservice remaining in her orbit, never letting her go. He pushed her to the end of the tether with his calculated disinterest. Then he reeled her back under his coat with measured charm whenever someone got close enough to untie her from the rope.

Yes, he could  _survive_ without her. But he didn't want to _live_ without her.

When he caught sight of her from the ring he knew he'd been right to pick out the vintage coral dress for her. What was she thinking going out on a date in trousers and blouse? He knew the dress to be among her favorites, seen her wear it to John and Mary's for dinner, back when there where still dinners.

Back when there was still Mary.

The juicy color played off Molly's mahogany hair and faintly freckled skin beautifully. It hugged and flared, dangerous and demure. A placket of dainty cloth-covered buttons, set off in pairs, ran down the front from low neckline to hem. _"Colon marks."_  She laughed, buttoning up, conducting a charming reverse strip tease that hid her lace underthings from him. _"I had a primary school teacher who called the colon the 'punctuation of anticipation.'"_  

His cock twitched. Molly's teacher was onto something. As was the dressmaker. But he didn't go to her. Not yet. After spending nearly a decade working out lab results in her presence - not to mention the ocassional opioid-infused fever dream - and four months playing with the myriad ways their bodies fit together, Sherlock knew she needed to scan him first, see _through_ him, lest he try to bullshit her about his aches and pains.

_He'd turn his skin inside out for her if it were possible._

She surveyed his shoulders from one end of his clavical to the other. His chest, ribs and abdomen received her same thorough inspection. He saw a flicker of something touch her face as she roamed the length of his arms. Even though he knew she couldn't see them clearly, Molly was acquainted with every single scar scattered across his body; those that had long since faded and the fresher pink reminders marring his forearms. She was stronger than him by half and poured that extra strength into his veins the first night they'd spent together, making it clear that, if he squandered it, there'd be no refill. It wasn't carrot-and-stick. It was 'I love you.'

He may be older, taller, have the higher I.Q... but she the wiser.

When Molly's liquid brown eyes drifted below his waistband, Sherlock couldn't help bask in her female gaze. Adoring, protective and downright filthy. Her 'medical lust' as she called it. And he welcomed it.

Of course he did. He was a show-off. 

Molly blinked, lashes fluttering in slow motion before her eyes settled on his legs, his feet. Her lips moved silently around the Latin of internal morphology. He closed his eyes, inhaling a memory of her mouth caressing the prose of muscles and bones, then her tongue following suit as she worked her way down his body. Warm, wet licks the thought of which made him shiver here in the heated corridor.

Sherlock exhaled and waited for her to speak. 

"What are you doing here... How did you... I didn't know..." She stumbled through a litany of fragmented thoughts, all of which he'd finish but not right now. He closed the distance between them in four long strides, cupping her skull with his still-wrapped hands and kissing her as though she were the cool water his parched body desperately needed.  

Her hands fisted into his damp hair, possessive and promising. Sherlock felt the tingle shoot down to the base of his spine. He angled his body away from hers to keep sweat from ruining her pretty dress. His brain applauded the gallant effort - a rarely used remnant of his gentlemanly upbringing - but his body screamed for more contact. All the contact.

"I don't care." She clutched his shoulders, struggling to sink deeper into him.

He leaned back to the wall, the brick cooling his skin but not his need. He held Molly off, regretting that he couldn't feel all of her, desperate to remove the barrier that existed between them. "Here," he croaked, "help me with these." He held out his hands. Molly's fingers took his left and traced the poly-cotton to its end then gave a gentle tug. The stretchy tape loosened while the coil in his belly tightened, anxious to be free of the binding so he could cup and pinch and palm her skin.

"Boxing." He forced the word out, transfixed by the seduction of her fingers at his wrists, his hands. She unwound the binding in a delicate, almost reverent, fashion, like someone unwrapping a gift they know is fragile. _Special._ "I do it. Sometimes. Pefectly legitimate. Marquess of Queensbury rules. Mostly. No gloves-"

Molly scoffed. "Dangerous." She tossed the limp tape aside and ran her fingers across his palm before flipping it over and inspecting each bone and knuckle. His skin scorched under her touch. He'd never tire of the way she inspected him - with a doctor's trained eye and a woman's unabashed desire. 

What had he done to deserve her love after so many years of denying that he needed it? Wanted it?

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Less dangerous without the gloves, actually. Gloves add drama and force to the punch. Boxing is supposed to be chess, not lurid theatrics..." The rest of his lesson caught in his throat, lost to the exquisite, simple pleasure of Molly kissing each fingertip before moving onto his right hand.

He took a gulp of air and continued to answer her unformed questions. "I'd seen him here before. Michael." The name fell like acid from his mouth. What a arsehole. But Molly seemed to like him, take pity on him, the way she probably took in doomed sparrows as a child. The image struck him in the chest; her small, deft hands set to work on a bird who'd fallen from a tree or clipped a wing trying to escape the neighbour's cat...

Her fingers spooled the soiled wrap as she uncoiled it from his right hand. 

"Go on. I'm listening." 

"So I theorized that he wasn't a member by his sketchy disposition in the bar area on the private floor..." The urge to kiss the top of Molly's head was stronger than his interest in regaling her with his talents for predicting the future.

But, clever Molly, she was a scientist. She wanted all the information due her before moving on. "And...?" She let the spooled wrap fall to the floor. Both of them watched in silence as it bounced and unfurled like a party streamer out of their cozy pool of light. She looked up at him then and smiled, her other hand still clasped around his. 

"And...and..." The slide of her skin across his now-bare hand muddled his brain. "And. I correctly anticipated the response of an arsehole to a scenario I devised. I 'lost' my card, knew my account would be too attractive to resist for Michael's associate...and deemed his interest in you to be more than friendly, less than admirable." He reached out to cup her face but she ducked his advances, placing her warm palms flat against his nipples, thoroughly disarming him. 

"And," she whispered, stepping into him, "did you devise this scenario?"

The press of her lips on his sternum knocked air and a groan from his lungs. _"Emmmm...nooooo..."_

"Or this one?" Her hands slid down along his sides, resting on his hips. Her lips brushed over one nipple, then the other. 

"No," he repeated. He didn't. He chastised himself for making such a grievous omission. She sucked and rolled each nipple between her teeth, gentle as she'd be with any of her wounded sparrows. _"Molly..."_ was the only word he could form.

"I don't appreciate being played like that, Sherlock." Her voice was clear, not coy. As was the sharp bite she gave to his nipple.

 _"Owww!"_ The intense, quick pain dissipated in an instant. His erection, however, continued to grow. He ran his thumb under her chin and lifted her face to his. This time she didn't maneuver out of his grasp. "I get it. Molly Hooper can take care of herself. She doesn't need a protector."

They stood locked in silence, years of data transmitted from his blue eyes to her amber-flecked brown ones and back again. The infinite loop broken only when Molly clasped her arms around his waist and spoke. "But she does fancy a pirate every now and again."

Sherlock raised a brow at her, the corner of his mouth quirking up as his thumb stroked her bottom lip. "How about a boxer?" 

"Not sure. I've never slept with a boxer before. All of the requisite data isn't in yet."

"Well, lucky for you I have an excellent reputation as both a boxer and as a collector of data— OH...!!! _Oh...Molly...!!_ " 

Molly slid to her knees and sunk her nose into his shorts. Sherlock nearly toppled over from the intense rush of pleasure. As thin as the cotton was, it was still too much fabric between them. She rubbed her cheek against his already throbbing cock, tempting him with deep inhalations and purring like a cat as her hands skimmed his hips, his arse. 

 _Christ._ It was the most erotic thing, her arching and stretching and just _smelling_ him.

"Mmmm, Sherlock..." She mouthed his length, from tip to base, then looked up at him, eyes all wide innocence.

 _"Oh fucking Christ! Molly!"_   That, _that_ was the most erotic thing. 

"Once I registered it was you in that ring. I was really quite worried, Sherlock." 

"Mmm hmm..." He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back as she worked another pass along his cock. The soft contact was making him harder than he thought possible. He felt her fingers, sure and steady - unlike him at the moment - slide under the fabric of his shorts, traveling up his thigh muscles, nails sliding down on the retreat. Up and down, a delicate assault that drew gooseflesh all over his skin. 

"And then, well..." Molly worked her lips just around the tip now, gentle pressure then a rasp of teeth and fabric across his glans. "And then, well, 'medical lust.'"

Her mouth was warm and sly. _Perfect._  But, as much as Sherlock enjoyed her toying with his cock, he was desperate for her naked beneath him. Or on top of him. Really, he could go for more of her ministrations between his legs. Whatever she deemed acceptable. He just wanted to continue their data collection in the room he'd reserved upstairs in the club's hotel. 

"Mmm... Molly... _fuuuuuck._ " Sherlock's laugh filled the corridor, ricochetting off the brick. He caressed her skull with both hands in a weak attempt to dislodge her mouth.

Molly rocked back and forth, cradling the underside of his shaft with her neck. He moved his hips in time so that his swollen head butt against her chin. He looked back down to find her smiling up at him, face flushed, eyes shining. _Lovely._

"And now," her fingers wedged between his waistband and his skin as she spoke into his length, "I find I'm quite jealous of these pants." She grabbed the elastic and pulled down, setting him free. His cock jerked to attention against his belly. He barely had time to step out of them before Molly flicked her tongue at the clear liquid running down his frenulum. "The fabric's wicking away all this delicious pre-cum."

"Shit. Fucking Christ!" Sherlock's knees nearly buckled as Molly swirled her tongue once around his head before taking the length of him in her mouth. She was killing him here in the near dark. In a semi-public corridor. He was prepared to die at her hands - which had now slipped to the insides of his thighs, one palming his sack, the other wrapping around his base as her mouth retreated. He whimpered at the loss of her lips around him.

"You know," she grinned, licking her lips, "for a genius, you have a very limited vocabulary when someone has their mouth around your cock."

He gave her ponytail a commanding tug. "I can assure you, Miss Hooper, it's only when _you_ have your mouth wrapped around my cock. _Fuuuuuuuck!_ " Her clever, nimble hand stroked up his length, creating friction as she coaxed his foreskin over his tip, then back down. Up and over. Back. Up and over. Back. His brain melted into a series of un-thoughts. Just a jumble of words, really. Beautiful. Fuck. Gorgeous. _Molly_.

His body was nothing but nerve endings. Pure. He felt the humid air swirl around them, felt the vibration of her sighs on his scalp. Smelled lily of the valley. And Molly's musky wetness. He needed to pull her hands off his cock so he could get her upstairs and bury his face into her pussy. But she wasn't having any of it. She kissed the crease of his leg where it met pelvis and spoke into the thin skin there. "Let's see if we can draw out a few new words from the world's only consulting detective..." As his foreskin came back over the head, Molly darted her tongue under it, swirling another bead of pre-cum around the tip.

" _Mmmmmolly..._ I need you...be inside...fuck your cunt..."

She let him slip out of her mouth, a thread of saliva stretching from his cock to her bottom lip before trailing down her chin. She sat back on her heels, hands to her knees. It was too much. Her nipples strained her dress. Her cheeks were damp, pink. Lips stung in what he imagined was quite similar to how her pussy must now look; swollen, wet. Aching as much as his cock. She blinked heavy lids up at him, her eyes gone dark with lust. "Well, now," her voice wavered, "there were at least a few new verbs and nouns in there—"

"Shut up and keep talking," he growled, pulling her to her feet, nudging her shoulders into the wall. 

"Yes. Yes... _Sherloooooock_." Molly laughed and gasped against the base of his neck, hands skimming his back. 

Sherlock wedged a thigh between her legs to immobilize her and set his hands under the hem of her dress. She hummed and moaned, writhing her chest against him. He could feel the little cloth buttons and her pert nipples, held captive by bra and dress, pushing into his chest. "Who's having difficulty using all her word, now," he teased.  "Christ, you're sopping."

She grabbed his arse, rocking into him and tensing her thighs around his quad. An appreciative groan escaped his lips, her pussy rubbing against his leg. She sucked at his bottom lip. "Mmm... Vaginal lubricant produced by Bartholin's gland, genius."

"Fucking Christ, Molly." He wrapped the flimsy lace of her pants around his fists and pulled, the fabric tearing easily. "All the blood's left my brain." He lifted and wrapped her legs around his waist. Her hands clasped behind his neck as she positioned herself. "I can only concentrate on rutting into you with my fucking cock..." With one hand on her bum, the other wrapped around his base, he slid into her in one deep thrust. "Oh Christ...," he moaned. "...into your fucking tight pussy... _Ooooh...So good!!_ " 

Molly's eyes closed. Her head lolled backward. " _Fuuuuck._..me, Sherlock."

As if he had any another other plans. "Yes..., he breathed, "Yes." She clasped around him. Arms, legs, cunt. Warm and safe. He pushed into her, leveraging her against the brick wall. "Are you? Is this okay...?" He was impressed with his ability to still ask a coherent question without any brain activity. Her mouth had wound him up so much that fucking her and pouring into her became his only imperative.

"Yes, God. Fucking Christ!" She rested her forehead against his, her pupils blown wide, giant black orbs begging him for everything he had to give. He planned on giving her all that and more. 

Had he devised this scenario, Sherlock knew he'd have a difficult task improving upon the glorious moment happening right now; Molly's fresh little bum in his hands, her body and sopping wet cunt pulsing around him, her lush cries echoing down the corridor as he slammed into her.

No, he couldn't survive without her. Fuck! Why had he even tried?

A door somewhere creaked and slammed. Footsteps came near, clicking on the concrete. Stopping. Sherlock slowed his pace. Even though she was still fully clothed, his brain went into hyperdrive, calculating ways to protect her from any embarrassment, shield her from discovery.

She pulled the curl at the nap of his neck. "Don't you dare fucking stop. Please. Sherlock. Please..." She whimpered, nipping at his lips before thrusting her tongue inside his mouth, "I don't care."

He smiled against her mouth. His perfect little wanton, bolder than him by half. He resumed his pace, a slide and retreat into and almost out of her silky folds. She rode his hips, meeting each thrust with a wicked grin.

"I...I have...I have an international reputation, Miss Hooper," he gasped in mock reticence.

"Let's add to it, Mr. Holmes."

The footsteps faded, back the way they came. A door creaked once more and slammed shut. 

Sherlock adjusted his hold on the underside of Molly's plush arse, wedging his fingertips between the crease of her cheeks. He couldn't let go to set his fingers on her clit, to swirl and rub and tickle that nub as he wanted, so he angled her body toward him. Her coarse hairs were so slick, the friction on his own pubic hair and skin nearly caused him to come. He slid his length against the inside ridge of her cunt, long, repeated thrusts to that spongy, secret spot she'd guided him to months ago; a deduction of hands and fingers, giggles and moans. The trail as much a revelation as the destination. He wanted Molly to explode around him, ride him until he saw nothing but stars, heard only her voice.

"Ohhhh, yes, _Sherlooooock._ Like that, please. _Yessssss_." She hissed into his ear and bit down on his lobe.

This corridor was his whole world. The sound of skin slapping, the smell of sex and sweat, all of it reverberating off the brick and tightening the coil in his belly. "Close. Molly..." His body wouldn't hold off much longer even though he ached to give her everything she asked for before taking what he wanted.

 _The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak..._ He laughed out loud at the absurdity of a Bible verse coming to mind at a time like this. But then, she'd become like religion to him, holding his darkness at bay; a skeptical man saved. 

Molly grinned back at him, wide and unadulterated in her pleasure. As if she'd heard the standoff between his body and brain, she took his face between her hands and pleaded with him. "Come inside me Sherlock Holmes. Please."

He felt everything slipping away then: sound, light, oxygen. His hips rocked upward, irregular and desperate thrusts that she returned, welcoming him in deeper, deeper. Then he felt her body go boneless as all her energy concentrated in her core, the muscles spasming around his shaft, her words unintelligible as he continued rutting into her. They weren't in a damp corridor, against a brick wall anymore. They weren't even human any longer. They were just cells, fluids, breath morphing into each other.

"Oh. Oh! Molly! Fucking...Molly! Molly...Molly..." He felt her flesh around him but he lost his grip on the rest of the world. It didn't matter. She'd flung him out to the end of his tether. He jerked and spasmed, shooting into her, wave after wave of hot, thick cum. "Molly...Molly..." He gulped for air as her body milked him, short-circuited him.

Stars splattered across the pitch back field of his closed lids. Metallic glitter drifting up...up. His body throbbed, shook between her clasped legs. Her strong, protective fingers thread through his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. 

"Molly..." He whimpered into her shoulder, not caring if he was crying or babbling. 

"Sherlock...Sherlock..." She breathed into his temple. 

They stayed like that for several minutes, just breathing each other's names, dim aural reminders of the club surfacing every once in a while to permeate their quiet space.

He flipped round so that his back was now against the brick wall and slid down to the floor, landing in an ungraceful heap, his legs splayed across the concrete, Molly still in his lap. Connected. They rested their foreheads together under he slipped out, a sudden gush of warmth coating their thighs.

"Mmmmm...I think I like pirates _and_ boxers, Mr. Holmes."

He was breathless and weak, blissfully exhausted. "You know, I have a room waiting for us upstairs, Miss Hooper. We could relocate, mine the data and collect additional intelligence," he laughed, "After a quick kip, of course." 

Molly stretched and kissed the tip of his nose. "I think we should hurry. You've got about twenty minutes."

He wasn't comprehending anything but the feel of her skin against him. "I...twenty...what?"

"Friday's coming to an end. It's almost midnight, genius. You promised me all of your Saturday."

Sherlock's tight-lipped grin made Molly's breath catch. He leaned in and caught her nose between his teeth. "I intend to give you every.last.second."

 

Lady Smallwood sat behind a large Lucite desk, its surface clear, cool like the woman herself. She sighed, long and heavy, eyes closed, pinching the bridge of her nose. A trace of a smile crossed her lips, then it was gone. After a moment she opened her eyes and tapped at her silver keyboard with well-manicured fingers painted Jungle Red. Her signature shade. The screen in front of her displayed a few lines of code and a glaring warning:

> _Continuing without reauthorizing data port 60625ORD will corrupt connection and delete recording. Do you wish to proceed? Yes | No_

She pursed her lips and jabbed at the key.

> _File deleted._

She punched out a breath and put her glasses back on, collecting files into her cognac leather bag. A knock at her door interrupted her progress. "Yes? Come in."

"Ah, Elizabeth. I'm surprised to find you still in the city at this hour." Mycroft Holmes stepped inside her office, closing the door behind him. "Anthea said you wanted a word."

"Yes, Mycroft. Would you like a drink?" She stepped out from behind the desk, long legs still slim and attractive from her decades of tennis. She motioned toward the crystal decanter set out on the long sideboard next to him.

Mycroft eyed it but politely refused. "No, no. Thank you. I'm seeing a...a friend for drinks this evening."

She fixed him with a raised brow. "A friend?"

"Elizabeth, we've gone through this, you and I..." He collapsed into the chair, waiting for her to reveal the real reason she'd summoned him to her office so late on a Friday night.

"Yes, of course, I know. Still, one can always hope." She slid to the front of her desk, leaned against it and crossed her legs at her elegant ankles. Lady Smallwood's Chanel skirt rode up from the knees ever so slightly. "But, Anthea was correct, as always. I do have business to discuss with you."

"Is it the updated IRA dossier?"

"No."

"The recordings then, the camp near Islamabad."

"No. Well, yes...recordings..." She crossed her arms in front of her, studying Mycroft's patrician features, the hushed jingle of her expensive bangles the only sound in the room until he spoke.

"Ah, well. No need to worry about a few rogue -"

"How's your brother doing?"

"My brother?"

"Is everything well? He's doing...better?"

Mycroft shifted. The movement would've been imperceptible to anyone who hadn't worked closely with him for twenty years. Lady Smallwood had. She knew his discomfiture when the topic turned to his problematic little brother.

"Yes. I suppose. Dealing as well as can be expected with the triple traumas of the death of Doctor Watson's wife, the discovery that he has a sister and the realization that his sister killed his childhood best friend. Yes," Mycroft sighed, "I'd say he's doing well, all things considered."

"He's still under a doctor's care, is he not?"

"Yes. Quite right. No medications - by his request. Intensive talk therapy."

"Hooper."

Mycroft's face contorted. "I'm sorry?"

"Hooper." Lady Smallwood repeated, slower this time, drawing both syllables out longer than necessary. "Molly. Hooper. That's the doctor's name?"

"No," Mycroft weighed his next words carefully, "Ella Thompson."

"Oh? I was under the impression her name was Molly, seeing as how he's prone to repeating it so often. And employing an imaginative range of linguistic acrobatics to do so."

"I don't understand."

Lady Smallwood smiled, a thin, secret quirk of her mouth, then walked back behind her desk. She opened her bag and began loading files into it again. "No. You wouldn't. But I suggest you remind your little brother and his... _doctor_ that there are cameras everywhere. _Everywhere._ Also, please inform him from me that his arse is rather spectacular."

Mycroft's mouth opened but no sound came out.

"I'm sorry were you going to say something?"

"Em. No."

"Excellent. Well, I'm off. Enjoy your evening," she said by way of dismissal. "And, do say 'hello' to Detective Inspector Lestrade for me. That is all."

\- FIN -

**Author's Note:**

> Nope. Not beta'd.  
> I have no idea what I'm typing about.  
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
